The Monsters of Music Read online

  "And we reap the benefits," her aunt said. "You certainly enjoyed many of them while you lived with me."

  "And I'm grateful," Mel said, more gently. "But don't you ever wish you could use the magic yourself? Be your own muse? Keep the fame and the glory, instead of giving it all away?"

  "That isn't how we operate. And Melpomene, angel, you're stressing me out on a day when I have a gallery opening to attend. Heaven forbid I should break out in a rash of pimples over this, but it's been known to happen."

  "That was one time. One zit."

  "Well, it was dreadful."

  And there it was again—the odd contradiction that made Mel hate her aunt almost as much as she loved her. She wanted to scream, "Why are you complaining about a tiny bit of acne when my face looks like a dog chewed on it?"

  But of course she didn't say any such thing. She reassured her aunt that she wouldn't try to perform anything yet, that she would think about laws, reasons, and consequences.

  And then she ended the call and began to plan her debut.

  -17-

  I Put a Spell on You

  Eddie Carver hadn't heard from the poltergeist in days. And if he never heard from him again, it would be too soon.

  He flinched every time he got a text. He eyed the corners of his dressing room suspiciously and kissed his protective amulet religiously every morning. And he refused to touch any food or drink that he didn't obtain himself, take directly from the caterer's warmers, or procure through Mel. That girl might be sulky, but at least she was reliable. He wished she would smile more, though, and move that hair out of her face. It would make her nicer to look at.

  He was relaxing in his dressing room after a brief video shoot for the upcoming episode, when his phone buzzed. He repressed his unease and scooped it up, only to straighten and suck in a breath when he saw that number—the one for the poltergeist. The one he'd considered blocking, but hadn't, out of fear that the Thing might make contact in some other more obvious or terrifying way.

  Holding his breath, he read the text.

  "Tell Archambeau to host a party for the contestants and crew. Two nights from now, on the day before next episode is filmed. In the auditorium basement. Dating allowed for all. Do not take no for an answer. —R. P."

  Tell Archambeau? Tell him? As if he, Eddie, were Archambeau's boss? He snorted derisively.

  Another text. "You laugh? I think you may not be taking this seriously, Eddie. Do I need to remind you who you really work for?"

  Quickly he texted back, "No! I'll tell him, but I don't think he will listen."

  "I have arranged it so that he will. If you do your part, this may be our last interchange. —R.P."

  Eddie desperately wanted to be rid of this R. P. character, human or ghost or whatever it was. He lunged out of his chair and headed straight for Archambeau's office.

  Catherine was storming out of the office as Eddie approached, her chest heaving as if it might burst out of her tight dress, her cheeks cherry-red. "This job isn't worth it!" she spat, toward Eddie, but at no one in particular. "It just isn't worth it!"

  Raising his eyebrows, Eddie ventured into Archambeau's office. Archambeau himself looked unusually flustered. His dark, graying hair was rumpled, his landline phone and cellphone were both ringing, and he was stacking papers with manic vigor.

  "Oh, hello, Mr. Carver," he said shortly. "I'll be with you in a moment." He picked up the landline and the cellphone at the same time. "Hello? Hold please. Hello? No, I don't know why there weren't any gluten-free options at lunch. The caterers are supposed to—all right. All right, settle down. No, the cleaning crew is responsible for that. Excuse me, could you hold?" He switched to the other phone. "The lighting rig is what? Well, call someone in to fix it. We're shooting in a few days. Yes, I know your people are already working overtime. Yes, we're all tired. I'll get back with you on that."

  Eddie settled into a nearby chair until Archambeau had finished putting out fires.

  At last, Archambeau turned to him wearily. "All day," he said. "All day it's been like this. The gluten-free sandwich buns disappearing. Lighting rigs malfunctioning. People losing their personal belongings, rooms mysteriously growing dust and dirt right after they were cleaned—everyone complaining about how stressed they are, how overworked, how tired. I've had more complaints in the past four hours than I have during this entire show so far!"

  Could all these issues be the work of the poltergeist? They certainly sounded like poltergeist-y mischief to Eddie.

  And here was his chance to fulfill his part of the plan, and possibly get himself out of this freaky two-way conversation once and for all.

  "You know what everyone needs?" said Eddie. "A way to relax, to blow off steam. We need to throw a party!"

  Archambeau stared. "A party? Eddie, you've seen how busy I am."

  "But you said it yourself—they're all stressed and angry. You need to give them an outlet for that stress, or some of these tightly wound artist types could start to blow. You don't want to clean that crap off the fan, or the—the walls." He was talking nonsense, but it seemed to be working. Archambeau began nodding, slowly.

  What else was Eddie supposed to say? He cut his eyes down to his phone screen briefly, to refresh his memory.

  "You could have the party in the auditorium basement," he said. "It's the perfect spot. Think like a rave type thing—old school, except no drugs, obviously." He was embellishing now, going off-script. Hopefully that would be acceptable to the poltergeist. "Oh, and you should lift the no-dating rule for that one night. Let everyone get that sexual tension out of their system."

  "I like it." Archambeau nodded slowly. "But when would we do it? Tomorrow night is too soon, and we've got enrichment sessions planned for the following evening."

  "Do it the night before we film."

  Archambeau winced. "That could be problematic."

  "Why? We don't usually start till ten on filming days, so everyone will have time to sleep in a bit. And if you prohibit drinking, there won't be a hangover issue."

  Eddie dug his fingernails into the padded leather arms of his chair, waiting as Archambeau rose and paced the room.

  "This could be just the thing, Eddie," Archambeau said at last, with a broad smile. "Blowing off steam, dancing, eating, enjoying a night of fun—I like it! And I think our primary donor will approve it. Let me make some calls and get this ball rolling. Oh, and send Catherine back in here on your way out, would you? I'll need her help with this."

  "Of course." Eddie exhaled with relief as he left Archambeau's office. He ducked into Catherine's office next. She was stuffing chocolates into her mouth, and she started when he popped in.

  "Eddie! I mean, Mr. Carver! I was—"

  "Comfort food. I get it." He waved away her excuses. "Listen, I've convinced Archambeau that we need to have a party. Let everyone date for a night, and dance, and blow off steam before the next performance. Too much tension and stress around here, don't you think?"

  She smiled, her cheeks pinking. "I completely agree. Did you say dating other crew and staff would be allowed?"

  "Yes, for one night. For everyone."

  "That seems a little foolish."

  Eddie shrugged. "Maybe." He didn't care. He wouldn't be attending the idiotic party anyway. Since the poltergeist organized the event, there would probably be some spooky, shady activity going on that night, and he wanted nothing to do with it.

  "So, who will you be taking to this party?" asked Catherine with a small smile.

  "No one," he said gruffly. "I'll be watching TV in my hotel room."

  "Alone?"

  "Well, I—" Would it sound pathetic if he said yes?

  "A party could be fun," Catherine said, her smile hopeful. "Is there anyone you've had your eye on? Anyone you'd like to spend a little non-work-related time with?"

  Eddie cocked his head. "Nope. Can't think of a single one." And he turned around and trudged back toward his dressing room.

  -1
8-

  For Your Entertainment

  Mel whizzed around the attic, grabbing a new tube of lipstick here, and a bottle of sparkly black nail polish there.

  Eddie had completed his task beautifully. Sure, she had done most of the prep work, but he had clinched the producer's approval and managed to check all her boxes. A party in the gloomy, gritty basement of the auditorium, where she could be seen but not inspected too carefully—check. Dating allowed between contestants, crew, and staff, so no one would questions a little kissing and contact—check. Dancing and music, and therefore an opportunity to show off her skills if she so chose—double check.

  In her role as Mel, she had worked the crew and cast, dropping hints about the party right and left, getting them talking about how awesome it was going to be and how everyone would be there. The stress and sexual tension were already present among the competitors and crew—she just had to stir it up a bit.

  Catherine, incensed about something or other, wanted as little as possibility to do with the party, so she delegated most of the responsibilities to Mel—tasks like hiring the DJ, buying decorations, planning the lighting, and ordering the food. So by the time party night rolled around, Mel had the event locked down exactly as she wanted it. Once everything was in motion, she had hurried up to the attic to get herself ready.

  She dressed entirely in black, as usual, with a black mask that arched down her cheeks, leaving only her mouth exposed. Over the mask and the tight long-sleeved T-shirt, she traced swirls and jagged lines of glow-in-the-dark paint. Buckling on a pair of tall boots, she turned off the attic lights and surveyed the effect. Dramatic, sure. Maybe a little demonic. Good. She wanted to feel bold tonight—dangerous and fearless.

  As the final touch, she added a velvety black cape from one of the costume boxes. It would keep her warm on the walk to the auditorium and give her outfit a little extra flair. She flicked the lights back on and approached Prince to say good bye, but he yowled and arched his back at the sight of her costume. "Silly cat," she said, and left the room.

  A few groups and couples were walking across the courtyard, their laughter bouncing off the cold concrete, the harsh streetlights gleaming off their hair and faces. The excitement in their voices spiked Mel's own anticipation to fresh heights.

  She followed them through the back doors of the auditorium building, where the low pounding of music resounded under their feet, growing louder as they descended a rear stairway. The dark, cavernous basement opened up before Mel, a huge room stretching as far as she could see. Pipes and wires clustered in the darkness overhead, glinting in the bursts of rotating laser lights. Mel couldn't distinguish many faces—just solid black bodies, some of them painted luminescent like her, most wearing glow-stick chains, bracelets, crowns, or belts. Beyond the amorphous mass of people, at the far end of the low-ceilinged room, the DJ was plying his craft, designing a multi-layered dance beat. A keyboard and microphone stood nearby, exactly as she had requested.

  As Mel moved forward, someone shoved a handful of glow-sticks at her. She snapped each one, enjoying the breaking sensation that gave birth to the light. She fashioned them into bracelets and strung them along her wrists.

  Time to find Kiyo.

  Mel had been near the breakfast table the other day when Diwali told him about the party. Kiyo had nodded politely, excused himself, and practically raced into the courtyard, phone in hand. The next minute, a text from him popped up on Mel's phone.

  "Hey, Mirror Girl. Party happening in a couple days. Did you hear? Dating allowed for cast and crew. Wanna go?"

  She couldn't answer him then—because she was being Mel, helping with the breakfast shift and the early morning coffee runs. But later, when she met him in the practice room, she asked a few more questions about the party and then accepted his invitation.

  Later that night, alone in the attic with her resurging magic, she tried to sketch him—tried to capture the expression of pure glee on his face when she'd said 'yes.'

  She slunk through the crowd, faces popping out of the darkness now and then. Some of the faces she connected with names, but others she couldn't remember. So far, not many of them were dancing—mostly bouncing in place and chatting, or cradling cups of punch. But there was a crawling, murmuring vitality, a quivering energy ready to burst out, if someone would only apply the right touch. The hard-working crew, the weary staff, the anxious contestants—they were all ready to release the agony of their stressful lives and have some fun. All they needed was a final push through that invisible barrier.

  A match to the fuse.

  Mel's ears caught Diwali's deep belly laugh, and her gaze snapped to the spot. Sure enough, beside Diwali's broad figure stood a taller, leaner one, with a sharply beautiful profile and a shock of messy black hair. The flicker through her chest at the sight of him left her breathless.

  She wound her way toward them through the crowd. Diwali draped his arm over Jalana's shoulders, and they began kissing, open-mouthed, with lots of tongue. Behind them, one of the stage hands was kissing a guy from the audio crew. Kiyo turned aside, laughing awkwardly, and Mel stepped in front of him.

  He looked down at her, at the mask, uncertain. "Erin?"

  She smiled. "Good guess." She twined her fingers with his, secure in the dark press of people crowded around them.

  He moved closer to her. "Want to dance?"

  In answer, she whirled so her back was to his chest, swaying in his arms to the beat of the music. She could feel his shock at the bold move, and she smiled under the mask. He held her gingerly at first, but she writhed against him until his grip tightened, and then she spun to face him again and jerked him toward her, sweeping him into a whirlwind of movement. Slowly, slowly, she felt him relax, his inhibitions falling away, until he was pure motion and passion, moving in sync with her. The crowd fell back a little, leaving them space to dance.

  But it wasn't enough to satisfy the frenzy building inside her. She could feel magic rising in her throat, in her fingers. She whipped Kiyo aside, pulling him to a dark edge of the room.

  "You're wild tonight," he said.

  "Kiss me," she demanded.

  He lifted her chin and pressed his mouth on hers, softly, briefly—a boy, unsure. When he broke away, she shook her head, her hands curling into fists. "Not like that. Not polite and sweet and romantic. Kiss me like you need me."

  His back was to the slivers of laser-light, his face shrouded in shadow. For a second, he was still, silent. Then he crushed her to the wall, pinning her arms with his hands, and he kissed her hard, sweeping her teeth with his tongue, pressing his body to hers. She burst into flames inside, her magic gushing from her mouth into his—but this time she held more of it back. She had a use for it.

  Kiyo wasn't stopping, as if now that he'd unleashed himself, he couldn't regain control. He seized her jaw and turned her face, kissing his way down her neck, slipping his hands under the edge of her shirt.

  It would be so easy to drag him away right now, maybe to a black corner of the auditorium, or back to his room, and complete what they had started. But she had a plan—her grand debut—and nothing would derail it, not even this beautiful boy worshiping her with his mouth, devouring her with his hands.

  "I want you to sing, Kiyo," she said hoarsely, winding her fingers into his hair and pulling his head up. "And I want to play for you."

  He sighed. "Sing? Now?"

  "Yes. Sing for me."

  "And you'll play?"

  "Yes. There's a keyboard up there. Come on. We've never performed together before."

  "Okay." He leaned his forehead against her shoulder for a second, then pushed himself away and strode toward the DJ's station. She followed him, her fingers trembling, her stomach curling in on itself and forming hard knots. Was this how Kiyo felt whenever he took the stage? This terror of failure, of people criticizing and laughing?

  She hung back. Why was she doing this? Maybe her aunt was right—maybe the women of her race simply weren't ma
de to perform. They were made to feed others the magic and the inspiration, not to use it. Using it was too frightening.

  Kiyo noticed her absence and turned back, staring into her masked face through the crowd. She couldn't speak, couldn't go to him, couldn't do anything except stand, paralyzed, on the concrete floor, with the crowd she had orchestrated swirling around her.

  He came back and leaned in, his mouth touching her ear. " 'Sometimes all you need is twenty seconds of insane courage.' "

  "Is that from a movie?" she breathed. "I don't know it."

  "Benjamin Mee says it in We Bought a Zoo."

  She laughed breathlessly. "He sounds like a badass."

  Kiyo laughed. "I used to like that movie as a kid. Still do, if I'm being honest. Don't tell anyone."

  "Because it might ruin your macho image?"

  "Something like that."

  His smile, the warmth of his fingers on hers—she felt an answering warmth flooding through her body, giving her back her power. "Twenty seconds of insane courage, huh?"

  "Yup."

  Holding her head high, she strode forward.

  The DJ voiced a mild protest when they approached him, but Mel whispered a swift promise of payment in his ear and he backed off. She snatched the microphone and announced, "Ladies, gentlemen, and others—for your entertainment—Kiyo Darcy!"

  She set a fierce beat on the sound board and began to play the keys, a sweeping, heart-stopping intro—and Kiyo, with her magic fresh in his lungs, began to sing.

  She didn't have to tell him the song. He knew.

  With the key adjusted to suit Kiyo's voice, they did Lady Gaga's "Marry the Night," P!nk's "Raise Your Glass," and more—every fierce anthem to liberty and love and lust they could think of. Mel's fingers rattled the keyboard, and the beats she laid down shook the room. They played and sang until the crowd wasn't made up of individual people anymore—it was a surging, throbbing, shrieking mass that existed purely to feed the two of them—the monsters of music.